The Traitor 10th
by N. Kage
Summary: The plight of Guardsmen on a world besieged by Chaos. Hundreds die everyday in a brutal war. The tide turns though, in whose favor?
1. The storm begins

The Traitor 10th

The rumblings of a city at war used to wake Sergeant Torres. The 'zipp' and whine of las-guns, the whistle-shriek of bolters, the dull explosions of grenades, the crack of aut-oguns and drowning out all others, artillery and tanks. The Traitor 10th had huge amounts of older model Imperial tanks, like Leman Russ MK VI's and outdated artillery, from Stonecracker siege guns to Hades light mortars. They were old, by about two hundred years, actually, but they still killed Guardsmen just as well. Not that the Traitor 10th needed help killing.

The Traitor 10th was an army, estimated to be over two-hundred thousand strong, of Traitor Guard. They had dropped out of the warp aboard a hulk some ten weeks ago and had not stopped killing since then. The first three planets in the Jourian system they struck fell within days and millions died under their merciless attack. Observers on Feriris, the next planet over, could see the corpse-pyres burning for three weeks straight. Several were driven mad by the experience. From this foothold, they launched attacks on the heavily-populated planet of Feriris and on next system over, Ionia.

The Traitor 10th hit Feriris hard, landing dozens of regiments of heavy infantry and tanks in the fields around the capital, Valera. The first line of defense, PDF infantry, three regiments of Jourian Consuls and a phalanx of the Eighth Pyrexxian Armored, wer shattered by hard-hitting, well-timed attacks. Almost four-thousand men and fifty tanks were killed and destroyed. The second line, where Sergeant Torres was busy trying not to die, held fast against the initial attack. The traitors did not break, however, and instead dug-in to positions across from the Imperial defenses and brought up their artillery and support weapons.

Now Torres could sleep through an artillery barrage if he had to. He shook his head, pushing the facts he had read the day before from his mind and focusing on his and his companies' survival. Emperor's blood! It wasn't even his company! Lieutenant Golder, who should have been in command, was killed, along with his entire command squad, when a mortar shell landed in his improvised CP. Torres, being the senior sergeant, was forced to take over the battered Third Company and keep their five block front from collapsing. The rest of the 6th Jourian Consuls was spread out to the east and west of his position, holding a total of twenty-five blocks. All in all, around three thousand men, out of a five thousand strong unit that began fighting five weeks ago.

The city itself helped make the fighting nightmarish. Valera was an emerging hive city, apparently over two million Imperial citizens once leaved in the tall spires and ugly hab-units, sprawling across a polluted plain of swamp land and marshes. The city was dozens of kilometers wide, with open avenues and tight alleyways. It made for excellent defensive ground, but the 10th's artillery and tanks clogged the roadways with rubble and shelled the taller buildings until they collapsed.

"Wake up Jourians! Its time to die." Torres called out, from his position on the ground floor of a shattered eight story apartment, his voice echoing up the stairway, waking the men stationed on each floor. He had about forty men in the apartment, with a few support weapons, missile launchers and heavy bolters mostly, with a flamer on the second floor. It was the main strong point for two blocks. The streets to the west and east of it were blocked by rubble and burned out tanks, forming a solid line.

"You say that every day, Sarge, but I'm still alive!" piped up Trooper Lester, his youthful face covered with soot and other men's blood. He had been in Torres's squad since the first attacks.

"I can only do so much, Lester, but the enemy is who you should be complaining to!" Torres returned. They could argue like this for days. They were friends, from before the Traitor 10th came.

The dawn glow filled the hallway with light, casting eerie shadows on the contours of his men's faces. It always did that. Torres used the brief, calm moment to clean his battered, folding stock las-carbine and let his mind wander as his hands worked automatically, the ritual imprinted in his subconscious. Until a runner came and jolted him back once again.

It was Trooper Leroy, who lied about his age to join up. He was sixteen, skinny and pale. His voice squeaked like badly oiled hinges. "Sergeant Torres, Sergeant Culla has something for you to see on the fifth floor."

"Can't she deal with it for an Emperor-forsaken change!" Torres snarled, causing the young Leroy to jerk back, as if he was afraid Torres would bit him. The bigger Sergeant fit his weapon together in a little less than two minutes; all the while Leroy stood a short distance away, unsure of what to say.

"You can go Trooper.' Torres spat sarcastically, 'I think I can find my way up there without you."

"Yes sir." Leroy stuttered, as he turned and bolted back the way he came, his ugly auto-gun slapping against his back. The sound made Torres think of bullets, hitting flesh. It was not a pleasant thought.

Muttering darkly under his breath, Torres took the stairs up two at a time and suddenly dropped, crawling in across the landing between the ground and the first floor. He bit back a yelp as a chunk of glass dug into his knee. There had been large, plate glass windows on the landing, but constant fighting had seen them reduced to so many fragments. Now it was a sandbagged heavy stubber emplacement, but snipers occasionally put rounds through the space. A couple men had been killed, but who cares? It was no one Torres knew.

This was the way Torres went up the stairs, bolting and crawling, earning himself a few more cuts and scrapes on the way. A few dust-covered faces waved at him or called out jibes as he crawled. A rude gesture made some laugh, before they got to their watch. Torres wouldn't let any of his men eat before nine or ten in the morning. He expected attacks early in the day, when the enemy would assume they were eating. This had thrown back one probing attack three days before that left about one-hundred fresh, black-coated bodies in the streets and ruined hab-units in front of the apartment.

The Traitor 10th wore solid black fatigues, with black webbing and old-patterned lasguns painted, guess what, black. The only thing that made them stand out at night was glint of their eyes. Every single one of them had blood-red eyes. How in hell did they all have eyes like that?

Torres soon reached the fifth floor. A shell had taken out part of the stairway between the fourth and fifth, and Torres had to jump across, his ragged combat-gear digging into his hips and back. Torres almost didn't land, the gap was only three feet or so, but his gear and sheer exhaustion made it difficult. He landed with his heels hanging off into space. One trooper grabbed him by his gear-straps and hauled him forward. Torres got his footing and pushed the trooper off him with a growl.

"Sergeant Torres, thanks for joining me." It was Culla, from the room off to the left. Torres ducked a broken beam and hunkered into the room. It was the OP of the block. Every window was sandbagged and covered by men. Where a mortar shell took out half of the far wall, a missile launcher team was hiding in the shadows.

"What is it, Culla?" Torres hissed as he pulled his las-gun off his bag and checked the charge. It was full.

Culla handed him a pair of magnoculars and pointed north, towards the Traitor lines without a word.

Crawling on his knees towards the nearest window, Torres kept in the shadows whilst he looked out. At first, Torres couldn't find anything amiss. He could see the closest fortifications, sandbagged positions and reinforced strong-points. Burned-out tanks and APC's clogged the streets and rotting bodies were draped over walls. He didn't see any of the enemy, no sentries, no heavy weapon teams, no armor, nothing. It was eerie.

Torres looked out further, peering through the early morning mist and fog. There! Movement! He could just barely see something moving, out about 10 blocks away. The magnoculars didn't magnify enough for him to make it out.

"What am I looking at?" Torres hissed behind him. The hair on the back of his neck was standing on end, like he was standing near a lightning strike or something. It was not a good feeling.

"It's at least a bridge-strength attack mustering behind their lines. They pulled back their front-line troops to add to the attack. At least thirty heavy tanks, some MK sixes, old-school Thunderers and Hellhounds, but there might be more." Culla stated matter-of-factly.

"Shit." Was all Torres managed to say.


	2. The storm worsens

Chapter the First

Torres grabbed a vox-trooper, easily distinguishable by his bulky transmission unit and wretched the mic out of his hand. The whip antennas were attached to the rear wall and connected by cables to boost the signal.

"All units, this is Torres. There is a strong enemy presence to the north, by the rail-line. Prepare yourselves! May the Emperor watch over you, you miserable bastards!'

"Another fantastic speech, Torres,' Culla snorted, 'why don't you pull out a pistol and kill them yourself. It'll save the enemy time."

"Some other time, Sergeant Bitch, right now I have to keep my company from dying. Now get off your ass and say something inspiring to your squad, 'cause I won't!" Torres bellowed, as he bolted down the stairs to check out the rest of the building. He took the gap in the stairs running and almost fell. Cursing darkly again, he checked on third squad, who had taken a beating from a sniper team. One of his closest friends had been killed. Now he was just another statistic.

"What's up, Chief?" It was Vox-Trooper Sinon, his set disassembled in front of him, a cleaning rag in his hands.

"Big fight comin', lads. Get your asses ready." Torres spit. The wiry Sergeant stopped to peer out the sandbagged windows again, trying to get some sense of where the worst of the storm was coming. He still couldn't see anything, the fog was refusing to burn off, but the rumble of tank engines and the sound of chanting were just at the edge of his hearing. They were closing in.

Torres was about to vault down the stairs again when a series of dull crumps caught his ear. Several dozen, actually, not that it mattered

"Mortars! Hit the deck!" Torres screamed as he dove down, cracking his shin on a discarded rations carton.

His world, normally gray and lifeless, suddenly exploded into a riot of color, sound and movement. Everything went red as he was thrown violently into the air, smashing into a low-hanging rafter with a rib-cracking jolt. He could hear explosions and screaming, but it seemed like they were underwater or coming from far-away. This continued, so long Torres thought he was going to die, in some run-down apartment, unable to save himself.

Finally, it stopped, leaving his sprawled across the floor, head and ears ringing. His rifle was digging painfully into his back and he felt like he was moving underwater, body moving ridiculous slow as he tried to stand and fight. A strong hand grabbed a-hold of him and hauled him up by his armpits.

"Sergeant, they're coming! Get up!' It was someone he couldn't recognize; his vision was hazy and strange. 'Snap out of it!"

Torres fought out of the mans grasp and pulled his rifle off his back, unfolded the stock and sprayed outside on full auto. The zipp and whine of the las-gun jolted him awake and the sounds of battle rushed back. He could hear screaming and chanting in some dark language, and the sounds of gunfire and explosions.

The Sergeant dropped down and propped himself up near the window and re-evaluated the situation. He did not like it one bit. In fact, it made him realize, he was, in fact, going to die.

The Traitor Tenth was advancing in four ragged lines, as far as he could see in length. Dozens of APCs and heavy tanks supported them, laying down a heavy base of fire that the infantry advanced behind. The nearest infantry were just crossing the road and had a hundred meters left to advance. They already had firebases set up across the street, with heavy auto-guns and stubbers set up, pouring thick lines of fire into his men.

Torres quickly recounted the enemy numbers, revising his estimate to around three brigades, at least eight thousand men and their supporting tanks, attacking what looked to be a thirty block area. It would be quite a fight, something he would remember if he survived it, which he began to doubt as more rounds whistled and shrieked past his shoulders and head, leaving bullet holes and las-burns on the walls and roof behind him.

"Damn it! Open fire! Target the tanks and infantry with extreme prejudice! For the Emperor, I won't be the only one dying today!'Torres turned and screamed down the staircase, hoping his voice would be heard over the maelstrom of fire. 'Trooper Sinon, get that unit up and running! Patch me a line to Captain Morgan!"

The young vox-operator scrambled to get his bulky unit back together, but his efforts were hindered by the fact that every near-miss caused him to duck, wince and look around, before returning to his work.

Torres went back to his window, blistered by fire and spraying his carbine on full auto outside, emptying a whole power-pack without even looking outside. He couldn't even bear to look outside right now.

"Sometime this century, trooper! We need support or something right this…" Torres's words were cut short when a tank round slammed into the second floor right below him, shredding two squads of men instantly and taking out most of the third floor's floor.

Torres fell, a dozen feet, and slammed into a huge chunk of masonry, his rifle falling from his numb hands. He was passed out. His company was on their own for good while.

On the fourth floor, Sergeant Culla heard and felt the impact. The building was going to collapse. Too many key beams and buttresses had been taken out and far too much of the building was damaged. A las-bolt hissed past her face.

"Sons-of-orks!" Culla screamed, her pent-up rage boiling out as she picked up one of her troopers weapons, a plasma gun, and stood, brazenly, at a shell-hole and began to fire. Swarms of infantry were pouring towards them, in seemingly endless waves. The gun screamed in her hands, and a dozen men screamed as they were immolated by a ball of plasma. Culla screamed, the gun burning her hands as it heated up, and fire again, aiming at an open-top Salamander-type tank, washing the compartment in screaming death.

Culla was using up her luck. Before she could fire again, a hard-round punched through the plasma-coils. The ancient weapon explosively malfunctioned, permanently blinding three members of her squad, killing two, opening a gapping hole in the wall and leaving Sergeant Culla a burning mass of ash.

The Traitor 10th were pushing hard up the streets, dozens of platoons fighting hard to take a string of apartments that the Imperials were refusing to give up. The few remaining Imperial tanks were battered and bruised, each having taken a dozen near-fatal impacts. One, the _Fellblade_, a Vanquisher-pattern, made distinctive by its long-barrel and recoil-dampeners, lost one of its side-sponsons, had its search-light blown out, and sported numerous dents and holes in its mighty frame. She had accounted for almost two dozen enemy vehicles.

But the Traitors were gaining footholds, taking the lower floor of one building by sheer grace of numbers. Savage close-range firefights erupted in stair-wells and ramps, leaving dozens dead on each side. The Jourans knew they were doomed, but they also knew that each minute they held out gave the other Jouran regiments time to rescue them. If they were to be rescued at all that is.

And Sergeant Torres had still not woken up.

The situation on the ground was grim at best. In orbit, things were starting to turn. A pair of Strike Cruisers, whose insignia marked them as belonging to the Silver Specters Third Company, were going to turn the tide.


End file.
